


Unbreakable Ties

by fawatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurie attends his mother’s funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbreakable Ties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greerwatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts).



> **Request:** Quite a lot of fan fiction focuses on the canonical romances; so I’d prefer a story that’s a bit different. One possibility: life for the Straikes in the wartime village. Feel free to include other characters besides those nominated. I’d prefer something canon-compliant. Future-fic is okay; but I’d rather not have an AU.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

It first occurred to Laurie at the graveside that he would be, forever after, tied to this man by familial obligations. It was an unwelcome thought. 

Canon Rosslow had conducted the service, a standard sort of funeral service, for the dead wife of his old friend. By rote, Laurie managed to make all the right responses during the ceremony. His training held firm. He _felt_ like shouting; but instead he just sat looking numb through the eulogy, given by Mr Harrington, who owned one of the larger farms in the district. He spoke at length about Mrs Straike’s many worthy causes. Various people, familiar faces from his childhood, acted as pallbearers. After the final hymn, Laurie walked to the right of Mr Straike, his Aunt Olive to the left, as they followed the coffin out of the church and round the back by the gravel path. He stumbled slightly where they departed the footpath to cut across the grass; his gammy knee gave way at one point and he struggled to keep up as they headed toward the southwest corner of the church yard. Fortunately a funeral procession was necessarily slow, determined by the difficulties of carrying the weight of a coffin across uneven ground. His mother had always been a petite woman; Laurie thought probably it was the bulkiness and awkwardness of the long wooden box, plus the need to balance it correctly on the shoulders of the bearers, more than weight, which led one of the pallbearers also to stumble as he passed over one grassy knoll. No unseemly spill ensued however. The rest paused while he found equilibrium again, and they proceeded inevitably to the deep hole that waited to take Mrs Straike’s final remains. 

Gareth Straike had chosen a pretty spot for his wife to be buried. It was, he had explained to Laurie, when he rang to tell him in tedious detail about the funeral arrangements, her favourite place in the churchyard, near a pink rose with a particularly lovely scent. Laurie had had no memory of his mother having any special fondness for that corner. Reluctantly he had admitted to himself that Mr Straike might have known this about his mother in a way Laurie would not. He did not want to accept that; but his essential honesty had made him at least acknowledge it. 

Those familiar phrases always said by the graveside helped Laurie to tune out what was really happening. A lark was singing; and he fancied he could hear a distant train whistle. He came to as Mr Straike selected one red rose from a bouquet, kissed it, and placed it on the coffin. However difficult Laurie found him, there was no doubt he had loved Lucy, no doubt he would cherish her memory, and love and cherish…. It was at that point it finally sunk into Laurie: this man would remain a part of his family forever. It wasn’t just a matter of getting through the funeral and saying goodbye. The dull sound of earth being thrown on top of the coffin reinforced this depressing realisation. 

There was, of course, a gathering back at the vicarage. Laurie had not seen it since his mother’s marriage those many months before. He had been invited, but had always found some excuse based on his studies or claimed patriotic necessity to avoid the long journey from Oxford. Someone had scrounged a long piece of black material and tied it into a bow that hung from the front door knocker. It was a nicety not often seen these days. Laurie wondered how quickly the material would be recycled into new clothing for someone still living. 

Inside the house it was clear the Women’s Institute had been doing their bit. The sitting room was sparkling clean. On the mantle stood a crystal framed picture of his mother. A black ribbon adorned it, plus a white rosebud. Little touches around the room provided poignant reminders of her life: a Royal Worcester bud vase he remembered from his childhood, pristine white lace doilies (which, if he remembered correctly, his grandmother had crocheted) and, on one wall, a watercolour of a local viewpoint with a slender young woman sitting on a rock reading by a stream, which, he had always understood, his dead Uncle Raymond had painted the summer before he went off to war. The endless lists and little pile of letters Laurie remembered his mother always keeping on the end table by her chair had been tidied away; but someone had missed her paperback copy of _Persuasion_ , bookmark in place, which still rested on the shelf under the coffee table. They all contributed to the general homeliness of the room, its aura of contentment. A photograph beside the telephone of his mother and Mr Straike on their honeymoon, his arm round her shoulders, Mum wearing a beaming smile, bore testament to the fact he had made her happy. The marriage to Mr Straike may not have been what Laurie wanted; but he could not remember ever seeing her with such joy on her face before her marriage. It had clearly been a happy one. 

Quite quickly Laurie found himself the centre of a little group of sympathisers, pressed on from all sides by women of his mother’s generation, all meaning well, offering tea and cucumber sandwiches. It was completely claustrophobic; and he escaped, pleading the need to use the facilities. However he did not head to the lavatory upstairs but off down a narrow corridor to the kitchen situated at the back of the house. He paused in the doorway a second, unobserved, watching the little rotund grey haired woman who bustled round. She would not thank him, Laurie knew, if he did not announce himself. 

“Hullo, Timmie,” he said. 

“Laurie!” Mrs Timmings turned round with a big smile and opened her arms. “You are a wicked lad to have stayed away so long!”

Laurie bent, accepting the hug from her and giving her a squeeze in turn. 

“Such a sad occasion to bring you home; and so unexpected. We all were expecting this to be a happy celebration; and instead your lovely mother is dead and poor Mr Straike is a widower again. Dearie me – such troubles.” 

Mrs Timmings rattled on, dishing out platitudes while setting a cup of tea in front of Laurie. Without asking, she buttered a warm scone, added a large dollop of plum jam and handed that to him as well. Laurie felt the tension ease from his shoulders. It was a different kitchen; but the comfortable warmth she exuded was the same (not to mention the homemade scones). He murmured the expected socially acceptable responses as she asked what he was doing these days, and caught him up to date with local gossip about old friends he had grown up with. He had left them behind, really, as he reached adulthood, first by going off to Oxford (the few who had also continued their studies after school had gone elsewhere and taken different subjects), and now through the circumstance of being invalided out of the war – not to mention his relationship with Ralph. It meant he wasn’t really listening, and Mrs Timmings’ next question caught him by surprise. 

“Have you seen her yet?” 

“Seen who?”

“The baby – your little sister.” 

Shocked, Laurie gulped his tea the wrong way and began to cough uncontrollably. His eyes watered and he waved away the housekeeper’s offer of help. For a few minutes here, in this cosy kitchen he had been able to forget why his mother had died: trying, rather too late in her own life, to give birth to another. 

“They were planning to call her Helen Olive if she was a girl, after Mr Straike’s mother and your aunt; but I understand Mr Straike wants her christened Lucy Helen now.” 

That would be disappointing for his aunt, Laurie thought, except…no…Olive would expect the change, given the circumstances of his mother’s death. 

“She’s really quite beautiful,” continued Mrs Timmings, “and very strong, which is a godsend really, poor motherless mite that she is. You should go up to see her, Laurie.” Mrs Timmings voice was reproachful. It was clear she thought he should have gone up long since. 

“Yes,” said Laurie, when he could speak again, “I suppose I should.” 

He got up, quietly kissed Mrs Timmings on the cheek, and left the kitchen. He did not, however, ascend the stairs. The front door to the vicarage stood ajar and he went to the garden. A large elm tree to one side of the house beckoned. A white painted wrought iron love seat sat underneath it, Victorian in style. As he came close, he realised its placement here probably dated from before Straike’s incumbency; the back showed distinct signs of rust at one edge, no doubt of recent origin. It was the kind of garden furniture that required regular maintenance; and the scarcity of paint in wartime meant it was not receiving the care and attention it needed. Gingerly, Laurie sat on the other end of the seat. It still _seemed_ sound. 

He could see in through the French doors at the side of the sitting room. It was crowded; but Laurie had a clear line of sight of both his mother’s cousin and Mr Straike. Olive looked strained, and blew her nose; the frequency of the latter was attested to by readiness of handkerchief (a stout white linen affair of the sort he used himself, rather than the delicate lace and embroidered square his mother had been fond of) and the redness of skin under her nostrils. She had been a fixture in his childhood, ever present at family celebrations, ever helpful at funerals and weddings. He knew his mother had valued her, no matter that she sometimes had a tinge of exasperation in her voice when she spoke about her. He fancied they had been close in their childhoods; certainly where both lived had been close, not in the same village, but near enough for monthly visits. Olive would undoubtedly miss his mother, in some ways more deeply, Laurie realised, than he would, for all she was his mother and only a cousin to Olive. He was not really sure who else Olive had in her life. (He realised he ought to know; but with the obliviousness typical of youth he had never bothered to find out the details of this relative with whom he really had only his mother in common.) Great-Uncle Edward was dead now. His mother had sent Laurie the black-edged formal notice of his death some months ago. It had not come as a surprise given his illness a few months before had prevented him from attending the wedding. He had a vague memory of his mother saying that Olive had once had some sort of cousin on her mother’s side of the family, also recently deceased. Had she anyone else? As Mr Straike handed Olive a fresh handkerchief, and considerately removed the sodden square from her lap, Laurie realised she had Straike now.

There was a sort of shifting round, rather like the carefully coordinated movement of bit part players on a stage which heralded the arrival of the protagonist in the play. Laurie watched, puzzled, until a slip of a girl he did not recognise – no doubt some distant Straike relative – appeared in the doorway, holding a white wrapped bundle. He had thought the main actors were on stage; now he understood they might have important roles to play; but a different character had the lead. Mr Straike came forward and the sleeping baby was placed into his arms. He stood tall, surrounded by a horseshoe of friends and relations, showing her off for a few moments before he stepped toward the armchair where Olive sat.  
She smiled in pleasure, when he bent and carefully gave her the baby. Before he straightened, he gently stroked his daughter’s cheek with one finger. Olive said something; she looked animated. Straike responded; he looked positively mellow. Both looked round, clearly trying to find something – no some _one_. 

With sinking heart Laurie realised he would have to go in; his absence had been noticed. He would have to be introduced to the baby. He would be expected to be pleased and excited about having a new little sister. He was supposed to love her. He had never had any interest in children; but he would have to feign interest for politeness sake. As an only child he had had no experience of younger siblings; it seemed a little late to be trying that now. This child who had deprived him of his mother – this half-sister, child of Straike. He would, for the rest of his life, be tied to this man by blood and duty. It remained a most unwelcome situation. 

As he made his way back toward the house, Laurie had sudden memory of the sheer terror he had felt in France as first shots had been fired in his first battle. Then there had been no qualms; his purpose had been undivided, his determination unequivocal. This was different; and there was no camaraderie to help carry him forward. He slipped inside the door to the sitting room without fanfare and stood silent behind the group. Gradually, people shifted position, so that in the end, rather the way the currents in a river inevitably and eventually, carry all drops of water out toward the sea, so too was Laurie gradually shifted toward the tableau of aunt and baby. Once he reached the front row, he took a few steps from the group and assumed his appointed place on the stool beside the armchair. He was taller than Olive, so once seated, his head was on the same level as hers. 

“I understand she is to be called Lucy,” he offered.

“Yes,” whispered Olive; and in that moment Laurie realised that what, outside, he had taken for happiness was as much her brave face as his stoic calm. Tears had tracked lines down her cheeks; and while she held the baby, and her head was inclined at the proper angle, Olive was not really seeing her. The child’s eyes were wide open, vague and unfocusing as all newborn’s are, but alert – blue: the colour of his mother’s eyes. Vaguely Laurie had a memory of one time when he was eight years old and his mother had dragged him with her to see the new arrival to a local family. That child had looked quite yellow. This baby’s complexion was the pale pink of good health. Absently, he stroked her face with one finger; the skin was very soft. Her nose was pure Straike – smaller and less defined, but indubitably Straike’s. Poor child; it would not improve with age.

Olive made to pass the baby to him; but he shook his head. He had a memory of a tea party before the war at Oxford, where friends had debated, back and forth, the role of women in society, and whether biology rendered them better suited to caring for children than men. Laurie had listened rather than taken a stand; the topic had been of academic interest only, particularly since by then he’d known his own nature, and never imagined himself married with children. Now, the weight of his upbringing as the child of a broken home who had been left with his mother to be raised, added impetus to his unease about the fact of this child’s very existence. He did not want to hold her; so he gave a reason for Olive to continue cuddling the child which would fit well with her beliefs: 

“She is better with you; she needs a woman’s touch.” 

The baby made a soft noise, and yawned. Her eyes shut briefly, then opened wide again; she smiled. Automatically, Laurie brushed a golden curl back from her forehead. 

“She’ll be a red-head, just like her dear mother.” 

Laurie hadn’t noticed Straike’s approach and his remark jarred. He shrank back as the man leant in to pick up the baby. Straike handled her with care; there could be no doubt about his doting smile as he gazed at the child’s face. She was wriggling inside her blanket. Laurie could see a leg kick; and as her head turned, he fancied those blue baby eyes turned toward him searching for something. 

“It is time for her next feed,” Straike explained, before he walked off, collecting, on his way, the girl who had earlier brought in the baby. 

Yes, Laurie thought, he and Straike were bound tightly together now, with an unbreakable tie. He suspected it was not what either of them wanted.


End file.
